International Poetry Journal

Expectation

Empty chair by the Christmas table.
Thousands of glittering flames
Dance on colorful ornaments.
The whole world trembles, it slowly rocks.
Green spruce smells like the woods.

Like Ariadne, I weave
Angel hair into memories and silence.
I return to happy hours,
To events that are now but dreams.
I listen to every murmur, rustle.
It seems, that at last I will hear
Familiar footsteps on the other side of the door